


his future at the bottom of this bottle

by paynesgrey



Category: Dollhouse
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-18
Updated: 2010-01-18
Packaged: 2020-10-04 11:47:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20470520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paynesgrey/pseuds/paynesgrey
Summary: Topher and Adelle make a toast to the present.





	his future at the bottom of this bottle

**Author's Note:**

> Written for my A-Z meme for "W - Wasted (Topher)" for [](http://lit-chick08.livejournal.com/profile)[lit_chick08](http://lit-chick08.livejournal.com/).

This isn’t how it ends.

When they return to Los Angeles, Topher Brink inspects his fingers. Ash, adhesive, grit and blood, and even with Rossum blowing up in his memory – like a scratchy film reel loop – he knows that with the tech in his hands (shaky, giddy, exploratory, hesitant yet bound) that nothing is over, nobody will ever be really free as long as it exists.

He doesn’t know if Rossum has the tech elsewhere, and with the formulas within his pretty head, he knows no one will ever be safe. Not really. (But he’s not strong enough to put a bullet in his own brain.)

Genius is such a burden, he thinks, and too many people have died around him. He knew these people, his friends and Bennett, and they, Boyd’s sinister smile and Paul Ballard’s misery will haunt his ever-growing soul.

He glances at Adelle as they walk like phantoms out of the airport. He knows she can be the strong one, but Adelle’s face is slack, and her eyes are empty, and she hugs herself as if she’s cold, not from weather, but from harsh reality.

Echo has other plans, and she and Paul leave Arizona to go on their next crusade – to wipe out the rest of Rossum. Maybe he should be a part of that. He’s certainly come this far. However, he can’t make a decision right now. He can’t even think.

He almost jumps when he feels a soft arm on his shoulder. Adelle’s pained eyes meet his and her mouth quivers. “Join me for a drink.” He can see the broken wisdom in her eyes; the alcohol will help her think, and maybe forget.

He follows her to a bar like a homeless puppy, and he already misses the normalcy that was once the Dollhouse, before he had these feelings that he was doing wrong. Mostly, he misses his safe sanctuary of walls filled with tech, and he misses Bennett within that sanctuary.

Four shots are laid out in front of him thanks to Adelle. His feels a lull, and he doesn’t even care that he never could take his liquor well. It doesn’t matter now, but maybe it’s to his advantage.

He downs the first shot (the finest Tequila he’s ever smelled and tasted), and he wishes he could get his hands on Whiskey – one last time – and turn her brain into nothingness. Free her from herself. Take away everything she helped destroy, but also erase the injustice he once did to her.

He sighs, and he catches Adelle’s glance in the corner of his eye. She’s way ahead of him, and the bartender tells her to slow down. She slaps a hundred on the counter, says something demeaning in her British shrill, and the drinks keep coming again, along with a wave of hot glares from anyone attending them.

“You should try whiskey next,” Adelle says, and Topher almost goes into a seizure. He shakes his head vehemently when he’s sure she meant the drink.

This is the way revenge is. The mind becomes consumed. Topher thinks he’s better than that.

Better – as in there’s nothing he could have done to Whiskey that will compare to world enslaved by the very evil tech he’s created.

Maybe they’re saved for now, but Topher doesn’t think so. He doesn’t think blowing up Rossum is the end to all their problems. He sees that in Echo’s eyes too when she drags Paul along to their next mission. Echo also tells Priya and Anthony to live their lives elsewhere, away from all this suffering. Topher scoffs. Why does Echo get to say when their part is over?

Topher doesn’t know how Adelle feels about this, but he certainly isn’t finished.

He slams the last shot on the counter. He feels that inevitable buzz, but his mind, no matter how inebriated, is made up.

“We’re going back,” he says, and Adelle looks at him – almost scared – and he sees a thick strand of unkempt hair slicing down the center of her face. “To the Dollhouse.”

Adelle doesn’t look worried or surprised. Perhaps she’s always known it’s inevitable. Coming to this bar, getting wasted off expensive liquor, and drowning their wounded thoughts is only delaying things. She huffs a little, and she gulps her own drink, elegantly, enough that Topher spends a second to admire her.

“In time, Topher. No need to get excited,” she says softly, but he still senses her poisoned edge. He stares at her piteously, and he guesses she sees him in the same light. She hands him one of her two last drinks and smiles. “Here, we can share. Now why don’t we toast to something?”

“What?” he chokes out. He means to be angry, but his words come out more like a burgeoning sob. “What could we possibly toast to after – after all this?”

“To the present, Topher. We’ll toast to _now_,” she says, awkwardly clanking their short glasses of whiskey on the rocks. (Damn her whiskey anyhow) “Our bodies are still intact, and by some stroke of luck, our minds are as well. Cheers.”

She drinks first, and he follows suit. The whiskey is bitter, hateful and coarse down his already burning throat. “Cheers,” he mumbles in respect.

He stares at the bottom of his empty glass, ice cubes already melting with residual booze. Topher jumps in a start when he hears a bump next to him, and he sighs heavily when he sees Adelle pass out face first onto the hard polished counter.

“Great,” he said, ignoring the tingle in his fingers. He pulls her against him to support her, and the bartender gives him the only sympathetic glance their party has deserved. He lumbers out of the bar with Adelle’s weight against him. He manages to hail them a taxi, and he feels oddly comforted as she starts to snore lightly in his ear.

“I’m always cleaning your messes,” he says, and his words surprise him. They ring fondly of the past – of times when things are not this complicated. (Or when he didn’t see the complexities.)

The cab them drives them toward their building, and Topher curses the silence with Adelle’s sleeping form next to him. He prefers to stew in his thoughts with both of them awake – with both of them to suffer their return to the snake pit.

They arrive, and Topher slaps Adelle several times before she grudgingly wakes up, slapping him back and rudely insulting him before she realizes where they are.

“We’re home, honey,” he says with mock enthusiasm. Adelle gives him a blank face. They pay they cabbie and take their time getting out of the car. Adelle still leans on Topher for support, and just this once, Topher lets her.

He doesn’t know when he’ll need her too, when he’ll be damaged enough to receive her nurturing in return.

“You don’t suppose we’ll have company?” Adelle asks him, fearing the worst inside this ghost house and mirroring his own thoughts.

He laughs weakly – it’s fake, like this life could have been if Rossum didn’t blow up. Fake and erased into the ether by his own skillful mind – he hopes there’s still time to prevent even more. As they stand in front of their former workplace, Topher can’t help but feel a storm surmounting around them.

“If anything, we have to clean house and set up a base. We need to get prepared,” Adelle says astutely, and Topher nods besides her as they walk, slowly, back into the belly of the beast.

“Prepared for what,” he mumbles, and she meets him sternly. He blinks at her. “It was rhetorical.”

“Have hope, Mr. Brink,” Adelle says, but her words are soft and distant. She herself is struggling to believe they can stop the impending chaos. But Topher can’t hope, not yet. There isn’t enough data in his brain to make him feel that comfortable – to give him that much confidence. Mystery, the unknown, and the true extent of Rossum’s influence weigh heavily within an equation of doomed results.

“Hope,” he says. They make it through the front doors, thankfully, without being shot. “I’m not sure I’m capable of that yet.”

The anxiety in her eyes tells him she feels the same.

END


End file.
